Day 13: From Round Towers to round tables

 Today’s challenge took me deep into the heart of the Midlands—to Co. Laois, where I was off to visit my school friend Majella. Yes, that Majella. The very one who introduced me to Genevieve all those years ago. (Don’t ask. That’s a story for another day.  Day 11.)

Like any good adventurer-slash-tourist, I consulted my trusty tome, Ireland’s Curious Places, to see what oddities might lie nearby. Lo and behold: Timahoe. A round tower, a saint, and the most bizarre trio of pets this side of a Disney film—a mouse, a fly, and a rooster.

You may recall (or not—no judgment) the legend of St. Mochua, a 7th-century hermit. He owned nothing except a deep commitment to prayer and the weirdest wake-up crew in Irish history:

• A rooster to crow him awake in the morning.

• A mouse to nibble his ear if he nodded off mid-prayer.

• And a fly that walked along the lines of his scripture like a living highlighter. (The world's first bookmark.)

Naturally, the monastery at Timahoe got raided a few times by Vikings with no appreciation for rodents or scripture-flies. So the monks built a massive 30m round tower in the 12th century—no diggers, no cranes, and clearly no planning permission—and it’s still standing tall today.

I arrived just as the rain stopped (briefly). The sun came out, the clouds parted, and for 30 glorious minutes, I felt like I’d stepped into a time machine. There’s a plinth with carved figures of St. Mochua’s curious companions standing proud, guarding the tower like a medieval Pokémon team.

Then, of course, I did what I always do lately—wandered into the adjoining graveyard. At this point, I’m practically a connoisseur of cemeteries. But today... today I saw the saddest gravestone yet. I won’t go into detail, but it left me wondering what heartbreak must’ve visited that poor family. It was a jarring reminder that every stone tells a story.

And just as the clouds regrouped and the rain resumed its usual programming, I set off in search of two things: tea and a toilet. In that order. Thankfully, I spotted a shop on the corner—aptly named “The Corner Shop”—with a sign that promised both tea and coffee. I was sold.

Inside:gingham tablecloths straight from Granny’s attic and two chatty auld lads holding court like they owned the place. (To be fair, they probably did..and were probably the same age as me!)

One looked up and said, “And how are you today?”

I answered, “I’m great! How are you?”

With a grin, he replied, “Ah sure I can’t tell you that... You’d be jealous of how good I actually am!”

Honestly? The most Irish response I’ve ever heard. Somewhere, a leprechaun raised a pint in approval.

As I sipped my tea (and delayed my dash to the loo), I couldn’t help but overhear—because let’s face it, they were shouting. They were discussing the local choir, its last rehearsal, and their next big performance. I was fully expecting talk of GAA matches or tractor repairs. But no. Choir gossip.

Another man wandered in, and immediately they pounced. “Why haven’t you joined yet? You’d love it! Great craic altogether!”

Later, at Majella’s over another cup of tea (this is Ireland, after all), I told her about the singing shop lads. She smiled and said, “That’s the Men’s Choir. The new priest set it up a few years ago to tackle mental health issues in the parish—especially among  men. A cross between a Men's Shed and Glee”

And would you believe, it worked. They’ve performed all over Ireland. Even marched in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in New York. Not bad for a group that started with a few shy fellas mumbling hymns in the back pew.

And let me tell you—those men were positively beaming. Tea, tunes, and talk. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

I couldn’t help but wonder... if St. Mochua were around today, would he trade in the mouse, the fly, and the rooster for a pint and a place in the tenor section?

I hope he would.